


Perfect

by rhia474



Series: Herald and Lion [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen is definitely a lion, Drinking, Drinking Games, F/M, Humor, Romance, flustered!Cullen is flustered, old soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhia474/pseuds/rhia474
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen thinks he has this figured all out, neatly labeling everything into Its Proper Place and Being Respectful; Fate and the Maker, though, has a rather odd sense of humor. The Commander of the Inquisition acquires a new desk, an unlikely companion, and tries to relax inasmuch as it is possible at the Herald's Rest. Naturally, Things Happen.</p><p>"He somehow grew comfortable with these two, he realizes, probably because they don’t exactly belong either. A horned Qunari with surprisingly acute observations about human nature, a man who isn’t actually a man, and an ex-Templar who pays every day for the sins of his past…<i> Yes, </i> Cullen thinks as he leans back and stretches his legs under the table, <i> this is the Maker’s sense of humor made manifest,</i> and when Krem turns to him and says ‘Your turn, General’ he knows exactly what he means."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N: One without quotes from obscure sources this time--figured it was time for a break. As usual, I’m playing with the game dialog while trying to remain faithful to the spirit of the story.**

 

_Pretty, pretty please_  
 _Don't you ever, ever feel_  
 _Like you're less than,_  
 _Less than perfect_  
 _Pretty, pretty please_  
 _If you ever, ever feel_  
 _Like you're nothing_  
 _You are perfect to me_  
_\--Boyce Avenue, Perfect_

****

They made her Inquisitor with much fanfare and not a small amount of ‘organized spontaneity’ (her words) from Leliana which at the beginning turned Cullen’s stomach, but by now he sees the necessity of it. They are also building her a suite to match her new title up in the main keep of their new, great big fortress, and when she’s not overseeing the builders or receiving visitors and dignitaries of state, she’s off to scout out the Fallow Mire and Crestwood, closing rifts and killing undead and he barely sees her any more.

He remembers her face as the people, _her_ people knelt in front of her, openly weeping and faces full of awe, singing along with Mother Giselle and Leliana, as the ancient song rose above them: she held her chin high and her face serene, but she was slightly swaying; still too frail from her ordeals, she really shouldn’t have been standing like that, but her eyes found his, and he saw her almost visibly relax and her back straighten. She was truly their Herald then, the Lady Who Came back the second time, in their hour of need, and Cullen struggled with the urge to kneel himself: he closed his eyes and joined the singers instead.

Their route from the mountains around Haven to Skyhold was fraught with danger, cold and wild animals and rockslides… He had his hands full even before they reached their destination.  Leliana’s willowbark tea lasted for quite a while, and his soldiers and the never-ending lists kept him busy enough so that there was no time for anything but making sure he had enough water to drink to combat the dryness in his throat and the fact that he too often shared his rations with some hollow-eyed children at the back of the marching column who clearly needed more than a piece of hardtack and a strip of dried meat. Their parents’ gratitude was obvious, and often embarrassing, and Cullen at the end took to just telling Very Capable Ser Lynette to cover for him at the night meetings and, forgoing his by now recognized-on-sight cloak, trudged back to the edge of the camp with a bowl in each hand. He kept a list of every single family they still had, obviously, and tried to make the rounds even, along with ignoring the gnawing feeling in his stomach and the stares and pointed remarks from Leliana about the hollowness of his cheeks. He thought he saw Roxanne once or twice amongst the fires, moving about the same way he did (with that ‘ _I’m not really here’_ walk, slightly slouched and furtive), but as she was supposed to have all her meals and then some, still recovering from her ordeals in Haven’s aftermath, he naturally pretended that he never caught a glimpse of silver-white hair under dark hood, sitting at a fire with a small child held in her lap somewhat awkwardly, and stuck to Inquisition business at their daily meetings.

And now they have a veritable fortress in the middle of the mountains, people are busy breaking down old, dry wood for kindling and discovering hidden caches of goods in the cellars and great, vaulted rooms (including an entire smithy full of still-usable tools and dry stables, and two storerooms of weapons), the Chargers, Varric  and Sera bring in game every day,  and their first herd of cattle and goats was driven in just last week from the Hinterlands, hopefully to establish a more reliable food source.

Once Leliana’s birds started flying reliably, they established contact with the outside world, and Cullen busied himself with arranging guard rotations, making sure inventory of supplies was precise and controlled, receiving and dispatching reports, and, of course, their casualty list. He keeps the most important reports and lists in a waterproof satchel because even after arriving to Skyhold he mostly slept in a tent in the upper courtyard, next to a table they found in a nearby half-collapsed room and dragged it out for him to be his field office, literally, in the middle of the courtyard.

_“All is well now, boys,” the Iron Bull grinned as he set the corner down with a solid thump, while two of his Chargers held the other, “our general has established administrative headquarters. Let the paperwork flood!”_

_“Shit, Bull,” his second-in-command, Lieutenant Aclassi growled, wiping his forehead, “that table is sodding solid; how **much** paperwork are we talking about here?” _

_The Qunari just pointed at Cullen with a thick thumb. “Ask the man, the myth, the legend: he’s standing right there… and what in the sodding Fade is **that**?”_

_That last part was said in a considerably more surprised voice, as an extremely large and very orange ball of fur exploded from the room they just dragged the table out from. The sounds it emulated were a cross between  Anderfels yodeling and the spit of a Ferelden Frostback, its ears were flat against its triangular head and it glared at them with huge amber eyes as it jumped up on the desk, tail swishing wildly. It looked around defiantly, claws digging into the wood._

_“A cat, I believe,” Cullen said cautiously, watching the animal. It was a very large one, and clearly feral. Since they reached Skyhold, they encountered several of them: a tiny but fierce tribe of them lived in Skyhold, descended from Maker knows what ancestors, brought here by the original inhabitants generations ago. Cullen had limited experience with felines apart from childhood memories of barn cats, but he remembered they were good to have around against vermins, and that horses liked them for that same reason. This one was probably their leader: the others were shy and barely visible, but this one was sitting now on top of the desk as if it was **his,** returning his gaze with a fierce protectiveness and defiance that struck a chord with Cullen. This animal survived here and claimed Skyhold before they even knew about the place: what right he had to deprive it from its just prize?_

_“Well, there you have it, Commander,” Aclassi drawled. “Looks like you need to share that desk with someone, after all.” He grinned. “Or give it back, I guess.”_

On the other hand, he liked that desk _very_ much, so it stayed where they put it. The cat, unfortunately, decided to do the same. After a short but violent staring contest, during which (although he would never had admitted this to anyone) Cullen actually growled at the orange furball, they reached an uneasy truce. The tom (it was, undeniably and visibly, male) claimed the top right corner of the desk in the late morning hours when the sun was just at the right angle, but kept moving every now and then as the beam on warmth wandered further down. Cullen got into the habit of rearranging the paperwork for the first days, but after that just left it where it was; after all, it didn’t hurt anything and he’d be damned if he’d given up his prize to an _animal_. It only knocked his pot of ink over once, the first time, almost as a test, glaring at him all the while as it did it. He swatted it down with an open, gauntleted palm, not too gently; the tom landed on its feet, but with a decidedly surprised expression on its face, about three feet from the desk. It apprised him for a minute with its amber eyes, flicked a tail, and wandered away, only to return an hour later with a dead sparrow in its mouth, which he deposited with great care right next to his elbow on the desk and sat down to wash.

When the cat started accompany him on his daily walks to survey the battlements, Dorian Pavus, witnessing it one day promptly named the animal Adjutant Felix, after the Tevene word for ‘cat’ (also claiming it reminded him of a friend of his) and the name stuck. Cook in the kitchens knows by now to slip him some extra scraps the same way she secretly leaves milk out for the entire tribe (there aren’t many of them, illness, malnutrition and the eagles living in the valley equally keeping the population low). Cullen endures the jibes that inevitably follow, down to the ‘but I thought Fereldans liked _dogs’_ from the Tevene, and when one evening the animal lands on his lap, _clearly_ by accident, he only hesitates for a second before his fingers stroke the surprisingly soft fur behind its scarred and torn ears.

There is, also, inevitably, already a tavern at Skyhold, springing up about two weeks after their arrival, ran by a taciturn dwarf and it does not take long before a bard shows up at the gates. Cullen suspects Sister Nightingale’s involved in that one, but does not say anything, and, as the ale is from Ferelden, he does not object when one evening the Chargers show up at his field office after dusk started to set in but before it was too dark to work by candlelight and invite him for a drink.

_“It is good for your men to see that their general can be less…sorry, Commander, there’s no other way of putting this, stuck up in the arse,” laughed the Bull. “Besides, it’s never good to do paperwork by candlelight, everyone knows that.”_

_He stared at him, uncomprehending: in Kinloch Hold, and in Kirkwall’s Circle as well, the best time Templar officers could catch up on reports and correspondence was after dark, when the mages were required to retire to their quarters and everything grew quiet._

_“What, bad for the eyes, you mean?” he asked, and the big Qunari roared a laughter so loud it shook the rafters._

_“Bless you, commander, bet you never got so ass-drunk after dark you didn’t find your way to your own bed? Eveningfall means you can start drinking, and starting drinking means there’s no paperwork that gets done. Are you saying you did differently in your Order?”_

_When he explained, the Chargers huddled into a little clump, and Aclassi (‘Krem, please, Commander’) declared they unanimously voted him ‘most in need of drinks and women’ in the entire Inquisition. As they were not under his direct command, it wasn’t as if he could clap them in iron for disrespect (which was, admittedly, his first reaction), so he merely drew up an eyebrow and asked ‘what, plural?’ which earned him a round of shocked expressions all around, followed by uproarious laughter, and a thump in the back from the Iron Bull that even through his armor made for a nice bruise._

And now here they are again, him carefully nursing that one tankard of ale (there’s no need to replace one addiction with another), Bull and Krem on their third, and every time they lift their drink and toast the air, they drink to their new Inquisitor, and all he can think about is what she told him after they scaled that last rise of rock and spotted Skyhold’s silhouette jutting against the dawn sky. Solas was standing just ahead of them, leaning on his staff, frail body practically wrapped around that piece of wood and steel to anchor himself to the rock in the buffeting winds of the Frostbacks, but his unshakeable will didn’t allow him to be anywhere else but out front to lead the way, Cullen assumed.

“ _We made it, Cullen.” Roxanne’s fingers squeezed his arm exactly at the same spot than back in the Haven Chantry, buried under rock and snow now, and her face was all alight, despite the fatigue lines around her mouth. “Just look at it.” She waved back at the line of people, ponies, druffalo and horses behind them. “Our people…safe.” As she closed her eyes for a second, Cullen saw glittering wetness welling up at the corners. “Maker be praised, we have a home.”_

And so they do, even though it’s dusty and ancient and partly ruined and smells funny at places (the smell of cat urine is less than pleasant but one gets used to it, provided it’s not on one’s bedroll), but definitely livable and Maker, it’s a grand place of architecture, Cullen has to admit, especially when he stands on the battlements overlooking some of the tallest peaks of the Frostbacks. He lifts his face in the wind that blows from Ferelden, and when he hears the cries of the eagles that they share this valley with, he almost feels like the constant headaches and thirst are disappearing.

But today Josephine is throwing a small reception with visiting dignitaries from Val Royaux and Denerim (their likes started to flock in almost the day after they got the Skyhold) to celebrate recent developments in mutual cooperation and goodwill (her words), and there is just _no way_ Cullen will make an appearance.

_“I am hardly a diplomat.” He set his jaw firm and withstood Josephine’s disapproving gaze without flinching. “I have the Fallow Mire reports to go over, and Chief Scout Harding wants to depart tomorrow to investigate those sightings of darkspawn at the Storm Coast, which means…”_

_“Oh, fine, fine!” Josephine threw up a hand (her fingers were ink-stained, Cullen noticed with some amusement). “Don’t burden me with the details, please. I’ll just let the Inquisitor know you continue to evade her. As per usual,” she added with a little sigh, and Cullen felt something twist in his guts._

_“What?” he asked, momentarily confused; he’s not sure if it’s one of the bad days where the withdrawal symptoms will render him mostly unapproachable and barely able to speak, or just that Josephine implying that Roxanne might miss him makes him all… “I’m not evading her, I am merely…”_

_“Doing your job, yes, Cullen,” Josephine said, somewhat softening her expression. During their log trek here, the Inner Circle took to calling each other their first names; it would have been terrible awkward otherwise sometimes. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”_

And that, of course, didn’t help at all; but he went through the day with gritted teeth, despite the dry mouth and nausea and the urge to throw things at various couriers who showed up with more reports, not to mention Chief Scout Harding being even more of her usual chipper self (‘ _no one who had as many spider bites as she has the right to be **this** optimistic about her next trip’_ Cullen thought by the end of their meeting), because that little voice in his head kept whispering “ _you promised to take care of her and now you don’t even respond to those little missives she sends from her scouting trips with anything but a variation on ‘that’s very interesting, your Worship, please be careful and report any unusual armored troop sightings as soon as possible’_ ”.

But how can he? How can he pretend that she is not so far above all of them, soaring like those eagles in the light of the Maker? He does not blaspheme thinking she’s Andraste’s equal, he’s not that far gone, but there’s definitely no way he would ever even dare to think of, Maker help him, what he almost did when he found her under that copse of fir trees and lifted her in his arms. _Keeping her safe_? She is the one out there every week, making sure they are safe, that they are fed and clothed and has roofs over their heads and that there are less and less Rifts and abominations and rising dead roaming the countryside, and ever since she accepted the sword from Leliana’s hands and stood above all of them on that balcony, she is their leader, and his Inquisitor, and it is as it should be.

So. Because he’s socially awkward and apparently can’t say ‘no’ to the promise of sitting in a corner of a badly-lit room with a bunch of other men and grunt one-syllable responses while others are having a good time, he’s in the tavern now, nursing that one tankard and a nicely developing migraine, and only listens half-heartedly as the Bull and Krem are recounting past commissions including one where seven of them were paid in rice for killing bandits…

“Wait,” he says finally, lifting a hand and halting them because, really, there are _limits_. “In _rice_?” Krem nods. “For eliminating _how many_ bandits?”

“Fifty.” Bull says proudly and leans back on his chair. The chair protests; it was really not built for Qunari. “Or thereabouts.”

“That’s…” Cullen pauses, wanting to say ‘sodding impossible’ but he has manners, so he settles for, “rather insane, even from you, Captain.”

“Hey, consider what your Inquisition does on a daily basis, and say that again,” Bull says, somewhat defensively. “But all true, I swear.” He beams at his lieutenant. “That’s where Krem here got that scar on his face, you know.”

And that’s how all of it starts. Cullen knows that it would really be time to get out and go back to his tent (he _thinks_ he found just the right place to move his office to, but they are still working on cleaning out the debris and broken pieces of furniture from that room in the middle tower, so it will be a while; and besides, Adjutant Felix likes that desk where it is now), but somehow he grew _comfortable_ with these two, he realizes, probably because they don’t exactly _belong_ either. A horned Qunari with surprisingly acute observations about human nature, a man who isn’t _actually_ a man, and an ex-Templar who pays every day for the sins of his past… _Yes_ , Cullen thinks as he leans back and stretches his legs under the table, _this is the Maker’s sense of humor made manifest,_ and when Krem turns to him and says ‘ _Your turn, General’_ he knows exactly what he means _._

“This,” he says haltingly, and touches his gloved hand to his upper lip where one of the memories of Kirkwall faded into a pale white line on his face, “is what happens when you stand between a friend and an angry red statue.”

“Ooh.” Krem says, looking at him with the assessing eyes of a professional. “From the look of it, let’s see…slightly curved sword, wicked hook at the end probably from the way it pulled your lip a bit outward there…but a _statue_? There’s _got_ to be a story there.”

“There is,” Cullen says curtly. “Varric probably wrote a book about it, too.”

“Kirkwall, huh?” Bull takes up his tankard, empties it halfway: it seems he made inquiries. “I heard you stood up to your commanding officer there at the end. Nasty business.”

“That it was,” Cullen says, and they all drink and fell quiet for a bit. “Not nearly as much fun as getting paid in rice for _that_ , though,” he nods towards Krem’s scar, and they share a chuckle. “Your eye?” he asks after a while, indicating the Bull’s eyepatch and the scar tissue around it. “I would guess…mace?”

“Only moment of my life when I was sentimental,” Bull says, and a look passes between him and his lieutenant. “Stood between this idiot here and a Tevene flail, so, close guess.”

“Love you too, Chief,” Krem says, lifting his tankard, and as Cullen turns to signal for a refill for them, he becomes aware of the silence that fell on the tavern like a cloud that tries to decide whether it would be thunderstorm or just gently falling rain.

“As you were, please. “ The Inquisitor herself is standing at the door of the tavern, peering tentatively into the murky depths and waving at a few of the soldiers at the tables who jumped up and saluting her awkwardly. “I am, ah, not here in official capacity.”

“Thank the Maker for that,” someone in the back mutters, and there are snickers.

Roxanne snorts.

“It occurred to me,” she starts, slowly walking forward and running her eyes across the crowd, “that while nibbling _hors d’oeuvres_ with Val Royeaux nobility and Fereldan arls is a fine way to spend one’s evening in certain circles, it is somewhat of a… less worthy way of using my time than making sure that the finest soldiers of Thedas have what they need.” Her gaze finds Cabot, the tavern owner, and she grins. “A round of ale of their choice for everyone, on me, please.” The resulting cheers, shouting and inevitable press towards the bar is chaotic enough that Cullen loses sight of her until she’s standing by their table.

“Boss!” The Iron Bull’s greeting is nothing less than enthusiastic, and he pulls out a free chair with his feet. “Haven’t seen you since we crushed undead together at the North Gate up in Crestwood. Care to join us?” His eyes travel up and down on her and he whistles, slow and low. “And may I say just how nicely you clean up, Your Worship?” The title rolls around in his mouth, the ‘p’ popping slightly at the end, and Cullen tries not to ball his hands in fists.

“It was Josephine.” Roxanne sighs as she takes the chair, carefully arranging what appears to be several layers of silk underskirts under a deceptively simple black brocade gown with silver embroidery at the throat and hem. “She can be rather persuasive. I, however, drew the line at her color choices. ‘ _It will be either the exact same material and color as my new doublets, or I go to the reception wearing my armor_ ’, I told her, and it seems like she found just the right fabric for both, albeit I am still sore about the lace and the embroidery.” She grimaces slightly. “She had her revenge with these underskirts, though. “ _’It is impossible to run in one of these, let alone the three you are getting’_ , she said.” The grin is back. “I am happy to report that I proved her wrong.”

The Bull laughs.

“ _Very_ good,” he says, approvingly. “We’re glad you came down, Boss. I’m assuming you put in enough time with them upstairs?”

“They had my undivided attention for a full glass and a half,” Roxanne says, accepting a tankard Cabot himself places in front of her with a graceful nod. “I, however, drew the line at the discussion of how difficult it is to obtain Antivan silk for one’s unmentionables these days due to the ‘unstable situation’.” She makes a face. “While I certainly sympathize with the marquise’s plight, the fact that we almost starved and frozen to death in the Frostbacks before we arrived here makes it _slightly_ difficult to fully comprehend the gravity of the situation she described.”

“Is that what you said?” Bull throws his head back and laughs. “Boss, you’re a treasure!”

“You are too kind.” Roxanne takes a small sip of her drink, and Cullen watches very carefully as she puts it down. _No shakes. Good_. “I am also happy to report that at the end of the ensuing conversation the marquise volunteered to send a significant monetary contribution from her personal fortunes towards our orphan fund. As she shall not have the opportunity to spend it on Antivan unmentionables this season,” she adds, resulting in yet another round of laughter from the great Qunari and a salute with his tankard from Krem.

“We missed you at the reception, though, Commander,” she says suddenly, turning towards Cullen and he feels like he’s very warm, as the full force of Roxanne Trevelyan’s gaze is concentrated upon him all of a sudden.

 “I, ah, hadn’t thought my presence would have any significant…” he stammers out and rubs the back of his neck.

“Certainly not regarding Antivan unmentionables,” Roxanne says promptly, with that inscrutable expression that Cullen by now labeled as her ‘Lady Trevelyan face’, and he knows he’s probably as red as it gets now. “Forgive me, that was inappropriate,” she hastens to add, and clears her throat quickly. “Your absence was felt by some, nevertheless. But I believe you gentlemen were involved in a discussion when I interrupted?” she asks, head tilted slightly sideways.

“Riight,” the Bull says slowly, still grinning, and Cullen is much grateful for dropping _that_ subject. “We were playing a game old soldiers like to bide the time with sometimes… Wonder if you’d care to join?”

“Doesn’t involve unmentionables, Your Worship, you can be assured about that,” Krem puts in, and Cullen knows, just _knows_ that this, from now on, will become part of Chargers legends along with the fifty bandits and the rice payment. “It was the Chief’s turn. We’re comparing scars and stories, you see. About how we got them; bonus if you can guess something about how one got the scar ahead of time.”

“I see.” Roxanne says, thoughtful. “I suppose it is only fair, since I accepted your invitation, that I also take part?” she inquires with slightly raised eyebrows.

The Bull nods, encouragingly.

“Absolutely, Your Worship. Don’t worry, we don’t bite. Much, I mean,” he adds with a wide grin, no, a _leer_ , Cullen corrects himself and grits his teeth.

“Oh, good,” Roxanne’s answer is lightning-quick, almost as if this was an exchange of swords. _Or_ , Cullen thinks, _very much like the way she baited him on the Haven training grounds that morning_. “I’d hate to ruin this dress.”

 _Yes, **definitely** like that_. Cullen feels a certain amount of satisfaction at the expression fluttering through the Qunari’s face now, and suppresses a smile.

“Well, then,” Roxanne shrugs that little Orlesian shrug of hers, “I suspect you would be curious about how I obtained this memento here?” She taps a finger on her forehead, where the white of her old scar bisects the smoothness of her skin. “Any guesses?”

“Dueling sword.” Cullen answers promptly, surprising even himself with his boldness. “Narrow blade, glancing angle: perhaps from your Academy days in Val Royeaux?”

“Very good, Commander.” Roxanne sips from her tankard again. “I see you read Sister Nightingale’s files on me.” That stings; Cullen wants to say something, to apologize, but Roxanne waves her hand. “Of course you did, you had to know who the strange person falling out of the hole in the sky was. I cannot fault you for _that_ , not the same way I am very slightly _put out_ for you not appearing at the reception today, anyway.”

The Bull smirks at that, and Cullen feels a bit of vertigo. That was _yet_ another, very Orlesian way of rebuking him, and while a part of him bristles at the chastisement in public, another part nods in understanding: _as long as she still talks to me with that smile on her face (dimples and a slight pout), it is all right._

 _Hold on Rutherford, what_?

“So: my scar.” Roxanne clasps her hands together in front of her on the table, as if she was preparing for a discussion of scout deployments at the war table. “The short version: Val Royeaux, Imperial Academy, first year cadet. Second son of the Duke of Montsimmard, disagreement regarding where his hands should have been at a certain point.” She shrugs. “I was not sure my backside was the proper place for them, you see; he thought I was just an unnecessarily fussy Marcher playing dress-up and wanted to make sure about the contents of said pants.” Cullen definitely feels his face heating up at this point, but the Iron Bull and Krem are grinning like mad. “And thus, we have met one fine morning in the Hall of Trophies, which was the traditional place for such disagreements.”

“And you lost to him?” The Bull says, with some sympathy. “After _that_? Ouch.”

“Not exactly,” Roxanne says with a certain amount of smugness and she leans back, adjusting the lace cuffs of her dress fastidiously. “I caught a ricocheted shard of his sword on my forehead after his blade shattered on mine. It left a mark, but my pants were safe afterwards for the duration of my education there.”

“Awesome!” The Iron Bull pounds the table with his fist; Cullen holds on to his tankard and  is still busy trying to sort out what is exactly going on with him getting all flustered by seeing the Herald of Andraste’s smile. “And what happened to the other guy?”

“The second son of the Duke of Montsimmard?” Roxanne sighs. “He finished his studies at the Academy, but I am afraid that his attempts of siring an offspring remained unsuccessful, if I recall. Something to do with a pommel strike to a sensitive area causing regrettably permanent damage. The doctors his father consulted were cautiously optimistic about recovery in time, however.”

“No shit,” Krem whistles. “I believe that wins this round. Chief?”

“Tend to agree.” The Qunari shakes his great head. “Boss, you should come and drink with us more often. Seriously: you’re already legendary, but if this stuff gets out, your folks will be willing to walk into fire for you. I mean, punching a guy in the balls so hard he can’t make babies anymore because he was disrespectful, _while_ breaking his _other_ sword into pieces; that’s reassuring, take it from me. And slightly terrifying, too, mind you,” he adds, and Cullen finds himself nod in acquiescence. “Remind me to be on my best behavior when I’m around you. “ He jerks a thumb at Cullen’s direction. “As I keep telling the Commander here, it’s important that your people see you’re human. Well, in _your_ cases, anyway. For _me_ , they just need to know I’m awesome.”

Roxanne snorts.

“Bull, I would love to do that, but I am afraid it would be bad for the Inquisition’s purse strings.” She inclines her head towards the crowd at the bar, a serious expression settling on her features. “I would much rather make sure they have food and decent clothes for the climate here.”

“Aww, you sure do know how to ruin the fun.” The Bull waggles his eyebrows; they obviously became much less formal with each other during their missions together, Cullen realizes: not that anyone could really be formal with the hulking mercenary captain. Still, it somehow _itches_ that the Bull spends more time with her than him, the commander of her forces does. “Not even going to ask the Commander here for a rematch in the Battle of Scar Tales?”

 _Here comes the punishment for all my wordly sins_ , he thinks, slightly blasphemously; and yet, there’s a strange fluttering in his chest as he returns her gaze.

“I am not sure that would be… proper,” she says slowly, and looks away and… _is that a blush_? Cullen thinks, disbelievingly.

“Then again, it _is_ his turn, if I understand this correctly,” Roxanne continues, Fade-green eyes narrowing slightly and looking straight back at him again. Cullen suddenly has the feeling that _everyone_ at the table knows rules he has no idea about, and he cannot help but rub the back of his neck.

“I…ah, as my lady Inquisitor commands,” he stammers (and oh, how he hates when this happens). He sees the Bull wink at Krem and Roxanne leans forward, like a great bird of prey about to swoop down.

“I have no intentions to ruin your evening off, Commander, so tell me please if this is over the limits; but you _do_ have the most awful tells.” He stares at her with sight incomprehension and she sighs, a bit impatient. “You obviously have a scar there at the back of your neck that you keep rubbing at when you are flustered. You probably started to grow your hair a bit longer to cover it, and as the rules prohibit that while in the Templar order, I believe you must have received that wound around or just before you left Kirkwall.”

“Shit, Boss, you’re good,” the Bull says, with clear admiration. “And you haven’t even seen it.”

“There is no need for arse-kissing, Captain,” Roxanne’s voice is sharp. “I am aware of my capabilities and limitations: after all, you have seen me trying to light a campfire.” She turns to Cullen; there is a slight flush to her cheek still. “Not to mention finding barely gone out campfires that were left there for warmth specifically for strugglers, if _you_ recall. I am still very much embarrassed about that one.”

Cullen is speechless as he realizes she’s serious. She managed to bury half of their adversaries’ army under a mountainslide, fight her way across chasms of rocks and demons and a snowstorm, not to freeze, and, after being found, to make sure he, Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine didn’t kill each other in the aftermath… and she’s all worked up about not being able to make fire and navigate in a blizzard?

“I don’t think that’s fair, Inquisitor,” he blurts out. “I think…I think you’re perfect.” He pauses, realizing his mouth just _completely_ ran away with him.  “For the job, I mean.”

“Oh, ho-ho!” The Iron Bull hoots. “ _Now_ who’s arse-kissing?”

“ _Maker_ , Bull: pot, meet kettle.” Roxanne pushes her chair back, voice angry all of a sudden, tinged with slight bitterness. Cullen blinks. “I am afraid I am going to have a long day tomorrow so you will forgive me if I cut this short and right here.” She turns, skirts swishing, one hand waving to the room: it’s strong and steady, but Cullen catches the way she bites her lip and hunches her shoulder as she walks towards the door, head still held high, and decides that the migraine can wait until he sorts this one out.

“Good man,” he hears the Bull mutter into his drink as he, too, leaves the table hurriedly, muttering half-hearted apologies and throwing some silver next to his half-empty tankard. “About time.”

He catches up with her as she turns by the corner; she walks with big, angry strides, holding her skirts above her ankles with one hand to the side. She obviously heard him coming, because she slows down a bit to allow him to match steps with her, and he sees that she’s scrubbing quickly at the corner of her eyes with her right hand to…

Maker, were those _tears_?

“Inquisitor, are you… all right?” he asks, his own hand hovering uncertainly in the air over her shoulder. “I apologize if I…”

“Do you ever stop working, Cullen?” Her voice is slightly shaky, but she stops, turning towards the inner courtyard.

“I beg your pardon?” He feels his eyebrows going up: what a strange question. He decides to clasp his hands behind his back, following her gaze, and…

 _Oh_. She’s looking at his field office there, right next to his tent that, no doubt, by now smells slightly of cat urine again: Adjutant Felix likes to have him on schedule and is unhappy when his self-designated human stays out too long.

“I was merely… thinking about how nice it was seeing you there. With the others, I mean, in the tavern.” Her sentences are shorter than usual, her breathing a bit more shallow, which is never a good sign as far as battlefield trauma is concerned. “Almost relaxed. I think you even smiled once.” She scrubs at her face again. “And then I come in, and you go all official and ‘Inquisitor this’ and ‘Inquisitor that’, and…” She squares her shoulders and turns back to look at him. “You said I can always talk to you if I feel the need to…”

“Maker’s Breath!” It comes out a bit louder than he wanted it, and angrier, too; she almost flinches, and his hand flies out and grabs her shoulder almost without thinking. _She is right, Rutherford_ , he thinks, _you promised her so many things and at the end_ …

 _Just like always_ , that little voice in his head whispers. _Just like through your whole life_ , but he banishes the thought and softens the pressure of his fingers on her shoulders.

“Of course you can... Roxanne.” Her face softens a bit as he calls her that, the tiny worry lines around her eyes dissipating somewhat. “I apologize. It’s just…” He takes a deep breath because how can one explain _this_? “As you say, I don’t really stop working, and with us now knowing the threat we face…As the commander of your forces, I must be ready for the event this…Corypheus might strike again. Our men should be prepared. I should be prepared.”

They, of course, had the discussions at the war table about this, about their losses, about all the grueling details of how to re-organize everything they’ve lost at Haven, and it works, the axles are slowly getting oiled again and the wheels turn… but the two of them somehow moved on different planes ever since they arrived here, ever since he watched her accepting that sword from Leliana’s hands and saw the faces of all those assembled in the courtyard cheering her standing above them all, tall and proud, as the mantle of the Inquisitor settled around her shoulders as if it always belonged there.

They talk when she’s here, daily, basically, but they don’t really _talk_ , and for the first time, Cullen starts to realize that maybe she missed those talks too.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan,” she says slowly, and then there is that snort again, and Cullen isn’t sure why, but the word ‘ _adorable’_ somehow sneaks into his thoughts as she scrunches up her nose. “My family is having a cow, probably.”

“I doubt that,” it comes to his lips almost instantly, and they share a chuckle. “No, listen, Roxanne, “he starts, hoping he’s not making an absolute blunder out of this. “You were already our leader in all but title, and do not doubt that, not for a second. You’ve proved it over and over again, and…” He breaks off, realizing that his voice is a lot less professional than he’d like it to be, and he clears his throat, covering his embarrassment, he hopes.

“Thank you, Cullen,” Roxanne whispers, narrow fingers reaching up and touching his own, still on her shoulder. “Haven was…close,” that’s all she says and Cullen swallows.

“And I sent you out there to die,” he says, rougher than usual, but it’s finally out there, between them, the final, the last and the biggest reason why he kept himself apart.

“I don’t recall I needed to be commanded,” she answers, eyebrows slightly up. “Cullen, if you think that it would have been your fault…”

“I don’t think it was my _fault_.” He hopes she understands; he’s willing her to _understand_. “I commanded the forces of the Inquisition; you, at that point, were not, in any official capacity, under my command, but, as you rightly pointed out, were a volunteer, a free agent if you will—and you were _willing_ to do it.  The fact that you were our only hope to forestall the Elder One while we evacuated, that you would be a _diversion_ , was undeniable, and I _would_ make that call again if I had to: it was the right thing to do. Command decisions are all like that, and if you’re not willing to live with them, you’re not suited for this kind of job. You came through, and out of it all, and returned to us for the second time.” He really wants this not to come out so harsh, so… stark. “But we should have been better prepared; there should have been contingency plans, something that might have called for less than desperate measures such as potentially sacrificing the Herald of Andraste. _That_ is what my fault was, and that is what I need to prevent now even more, that you’re officially our leader.”

“All right, I accept that,” Roxanne says simply, with the eyes of a student who just stumbled upon one of the universal truths of her trade. She nods, even, but then she looks up at him, and her lips tremble slightly, and Cullen’s insides just _twist_. “It, however, does not explain your letters.”

“My… letters?” She keeps yanking the firm terrain out from underneath him, it seems, and he does not do good on uncharted waters; he stammers. “Oh, you mean the responses to your…”

“Indeed.” Roxanne lowers her hand, cool fingers releasing his; Cullen feels a pang of regret. “I was so pleased that you… that so many survived after Haven, that I can help rebuilding, that I can go out there again and help you… and the others, I mean. I suppose I wanted to share that; wanted to ask your advice, and, especially after I was made Inquisitor, I wanted some words from a…friend.” Her voice is tentative and suddenly sounding very lonely. “I do not wish to place a burden on you that you might not want to carry, or sound like a delicate flower, but honestly, I hoped…”

“That I would live up to my own standards?” It’s ironic, really, but that’s the long and the short of it; why people like Cassandra or Roxanne trust him still escapes Cullen. “That I put my money where my mouth is, to use a crude Fereldan phrase?” That earns him a smile and a slight headshake, but she does not turn away, so he plunges ahead. “If I apologize most sincerely, would the Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan allow her Commander to atone?”

He makes a formal bow, clenches his teeth and hopes for the best.

“Hm.” She is definitely smiling now; there’s that _thing_ in his chest again. “That depends on, you know, how much time you can dedicate to, let’s see, resume our morning practices at least twice a week when I am here, and the quality of your missives while I am on the road, my good _ser_.”

“A deal,” he says quickly, and she finally laughs. There is no dignity in that laugh whatsoever: Roxanne Trevelyan laughs with a full, rich, openmouthed, head-thrown-back way that is absolutely unladylike and yet utterly _her_ ; Cullen finds that he can barely breathe.

“I needed that,” she says, still chuckling, looking at him sideways. “What?” she asks, hand stilling as she sweeps a few errant tendrils of her hair behind her ear.

“What _what_?” he asks back; yes, he’s staring at her, but…

“You are staring,” she says gently. “I am aware that I do not conform to the gentle noble lady stereotype the tales of chivalry often describe in situations like this, but a bit less emphasis on just how uncouth my laughter is would be appreciated…”

“Oh.” His ears are definitely red now. “No! It’s not…I was not thinking that you are… Maker’s Breath!” he bursts out, desperately. “How do you _do_ that?”

“Practice, and years of living in Orlais,” she says smoothly, turning towards the great central keep of Skyhold and starting to walk slowly along the path. “I really should apologize, but after a while it becomes almost a reflex and you _are_ such an easy mark.”

“I’m out of my element, that’s what I am,” he mutters, rubbing his neck; now that they had that conversation, he feels considerably lighter, but that, he suspects, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be on his toes when talking to her.

_On the contrary, Rutherford. On the contrary._

“ _Oh, la_. If you stick with Josephine, Leliana and I that can be easily remedied.” A chuckle. “You would not be the first to be put off by my…’braying’, my brothers called it, actually.”

“No way!” Cullen says, earnestly. “Sounds like your siblings were just as insufferable as mine.”

“Oh, I don’t know about _that_ ,” Roxanne sounds amused. _Maker, but it’s good talking to her like this_ , Cullen thinks. “Perhaps we should compare stories. So you have family, too? In Kirkwall?”

“No; they used to live in Honnleath, southwest Ferelden, not too terribly far away from here, actually, but they moved to South Reach when the Blight broke out—they are still there.” He pauses. “I don’t really…have anyone in Kirkwall, anymore.”

“I see.” In the darkness of the courtyard he can only see her profile and a glimpse of silver in her eyes, but he clearly hears her take a deep breath. “So: no one special, then?”

And as Cullen answers with a certainty that he, until now, only reserved for the great truths of the Faith, he feels that strange pressure around his heart ease up somewhat.

“No. Not in Kirkwall.”

 


End file.
